Nymphetamine
by sakuyavalentine
Summary: Multi-chapter. Sparda x Eva.
1. Part I

**Nymphetamine  
**(part I)

.

"With skies fire-paved  
I begged you appear  
like a thorn for the holy ones_…"_

- "Nymphetamine" - _Cradle of Filth_

.

It was cliché, their meeting; the kind that occurred in fairytales and left outsiders swooning, while knowing, deep in their hearts, that such an event was unrealistic, a chance in a million. They were from different worlds, different times, and at first glance, completely different people. Truth be told, he wondered what they saw in each other at all. But he supposed love was like that, so powerful an emotion that any dissimilarity, big or small, was taken with a grain of salt.

She'd changed him, of that he was certain, though hers was only the final, and perhaps the most significant, in a long series of slight metamorphoses to his hellish being. If he was going to be truthful, and he would -- he was not that arrogant to overlook his own flaws -- he was something rather frightening a good deal of time ago. A sight of demonic perfection, agile and athletic where others were lazy, short-tempered where others thought only of slumber when their next meal was not before them. Pitiful creatures, really, lower than dirt in respect to him.

He was a noble among the hellhounds, eloquent in speech and rich in thought, physically handsome and frightening at precisely the same time, the most sought after bachelor of the Underworld by the she-devils, and a few fervent males. His nonchalant nature proved an eyesore for Emperor Mundus, a great man himself with title of royalty. It became rather the amusing past-time to irk the old king to the point upon which the royal guard -- those buffoons -- were sent to discard of him.

The particular grounds for his little revolution -- rebellion, call it what you will -- were lost to time; even he did not know. It could very well have been out of disgust for the rotten state of Hell during Mundus' sluggish rule, a state of worms than Heaven's feared opponents, or it may have been a simple result of boredom. Few ventured out of the Underworld, fewer still into it. Where was the fun in lounging around like a sloth? Only war got the blood flowing and bubbling like volcanic lava.

It began simply enough. The murder of a noble, unexplainable and unprovoked, leaving the huddled masses in panic that a killer was about. He'd played the innocent, avoided questioning, remaining fairly unaffected by the whole ordeal, only to repeat the process time later. It became most useful to kill his friends and comrades, those with ties to him as it would puzzle the royal guard. On the one hand, all evidence pointed to him, while on the other…these were his cohorts; why kill them?

Because of their disregard for status and life. He declared war and therein vowed to recreate Hell in his image. The first step, of course, in any renewal, was to do away with the old, and the bloodbath began. But his was unlike all other rebellions in that none joined his cause. Those with the ability to fight remained forever loyal to their emperor, while the stains of society gave not a care.

They were the first to go. It was almost pleasant to watch their feeble attempts at begging, and if spared, they would forever be his servant, to fight for his cause. The sounds of gunshots and explosions of crimson were enough to shut them up. As if he would honestly yield to that; he was not a merciful being, nor was he stupid. Neutral swines or rebellious swines, it made no real difference.

Demons with status were a fair more difficult to deal with, but still, little match for him. He did not kill them all, though the reasons, he could not explain, and decided that perchance some day in future he would return to have a bit more fun whilst humiliating them, once powerful creatures defeated by a single demon. He sealed them away in prisons of their own, small in relative size to drive their unstable minds further into madness.

"It's like a game to you, is it not?" inquired a smooth, dark voice from the shadows. It took little ability to deduce the identity of the speaker, as he was in her territory.

Above, the moon shone a reddish hue, as though steeped in blood. Fog with a pungent stench hovered just above the dry, dusted earth, blurring the horizon, and the silence was filled by clouds of black bats, screeching like rusted steel. The shadows, created by towering spires of stone, twisted and convulsed, rising from the earth to sprout forth a fair skinned -- almost sickly pale -- woman.

The she-devil was a lovely sight indeed, equal in desirability to himself even, with a supple frame, slim and curved in just the right places. Clothing was a foreign concept to her, though she kept a slight degree of humility by hiding her nether half behind a puff of darkness and her gracious breasts behind tresses of scarlet. Two sharp canines poked passed her lips, dark as the blood she nourished herself on, and equally fearsome eyes, framed by thick lashes, caught his icy blue ones, unwavering.

"Have you come to kill me too, Dark Knight Sparda?" Her lips turned in a pout as she spoke, feigning innocence while fully aware that he would not be swayed by such childish behaviour. She was as wicked as he, perhaps more so, and in another time, he may have found bliss in her company.

She moved around him, each step graceful in its dark exoticism, trialing a single warm finger, nails sharpened to a point, up his arm and across his shoulders. Her touch sent a shiver of intrigue and repulsion throughout his body, though he retained his composure with expert ability. Were he a weaker man, he would have submitted to her seduction without a quiver of conscience.

"Kill you?" he repeated, as though the very idea was outrageous. "Now, why ever would I wish to do that? To kill such a beautiful creature would be a waste."

Her grin stretched further, flattered by his words, her next steps close until her breasts brushed ever so lightly against his coat. "Even a warrior such as yourself needs a little relaxation now and again, don't you agree? Allow me to take care of you; I promise you shan't be disappointed. In fact, you will never want to leave."

Up his jaw, her finger stopped against his lips, both strong and soft, and, playing along, the noble demon bit it gently, winding a strong arm around her slender back and moulding her against him.

"You are truly enchanting, dear Nevan," he murmured, drawing his face closer. A startled sigh escaped her rouge lips upon feeling firm pressure against her thigh. "And I would so love to remain here with you. However…there are things to which I must attend to."

She screamed aloud as the stone beneath their feet shattered in an explosion of gunpowder and spurts of red, the bullet creating a small crater. Sparda swung back his arm and bent in a humble bow, blowing gently on the smoking revolver tip, feeling no pity as the succubus tumbled to the floor in a dizzying heap of pale flesh and fiery hair, winged rodents all a frenzy.

"Have yourself a good evening, Nevan," he said over his shoulder, monocled eye winking. His haunting laughter reverberated against the stone, growing in magnitude, until it pounded against the demoness' already ringing skull. She watched him go, serpentine eyes evaluating the cocky strut and wondering how such a monster could allure her so.

.

_to be continued…_


	2. Part II

**Nymphetamine  
**(part II)

.

"Cold was my soul.  
Untold was the pain  
I faced when you left me  
a rose in the rain_…"_

- "Nymphetamine" - _Cradle of Filth_

.

The Underworld was known for its darkness. Pure absolute darkness, the kind found between diamond stars and planetoids, the kind beneath the soles of the feet. There, there is no light, no distant shimmer drawing rough outlines in gray, allowing the eyes to adjust, given enough time, when pupils were stretched to their limit. The only moon had died long ago, replaced by a sky of swirling black and gray and brown, a toxic sky of impenetrable clouds, offering forth a steady sprinkle of acidic moisture that coagulated between the rocks and in shallow craters, the homes of poisoned insects.

This darkness was of the blind kind. A hand was never seen, even if it was so close as to brush a nose. Only spectres seemed eligible to navigate the dark corridors, though dead they were; castle death traps and solid stone walls would do them no harm or hinder.

But Sparda was not a ghoul or ghost of any kind. A demon he was, but he was still mortal to danger. Even he was not so bold as to tread the castle's winding hallways and steep pitfalls and weight-sensing booby traps without a source of light to reveal them first. Tucked away in his pocket, nestled safely beside leather holsters and violet velvet, a blue-hued Luminite spread a lake of silver light around his feet. A nifty little gem it was, and with its help, locating the throne room he'd barged his way into countless times was a simple feat indeed.

Strong arms pushed open a set of towering doors, their ancient hinges squealing like dying cats. The chamber within was flanked by marble spires, allowing false light, originating from where he didn't know, to slant through floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off moisture and dust particles like microscopic diamonds. Sparda walked the crystalline floor, every solid footfall echoing monstrously in the silence. He stopped every so often, when fine ears pricked up of their own accord, listening to the faint cackle-laugh of a blade-swinging reaper or growling phantom, before deciding they were far enough away to prove unthreatening and walked on.

At the rear of the chamber, towering like a god over its people, sat Mundus' prized statue. Features chiselled to perfection, round eyes hollow, a third in the centre alluding to omnipotent vision of hidden truths and personal emotions.

The eyes remained still, not a shimmer or flicker to assume any life, but Sparda could feel the dead gaze pierce through him, a stirring of something prodding around in a place it had no right, touching with iced talons the deepest recesses of his mind.

"What are you searching for, dear king? Whatever it is, you shan't find it," he said smoothly, in a tone that implied general curiosity, like two strangers conversing over a drink at the pub. "I have no secrets for you to expose; I have lived honestly enough. There are no emotions, or loves to enact upon, or use to your advantage. And cannot I play upon your own. There aren't any, of that I am certain. Therefore, we are on equal playing field."

A smirk crossed his lips as the discomfort faded.

The ground shook with the force of an earthquake, and the dark knight stumbled only briefly before righting himself to stare straight into the gray eyes of the statue. Mundus' voice, the rumbling earth itself, caused his teeth to chatter in his skull, and his ears to ring.

"Long have I awaited this day Sparda. You are a cold one indeed, to kill your comrades without so much as cringing."

Sparda yielded with a roll of his shoulders. "Yes, that is quite true. I am a monster, wicked and cold. Though, no more than you."

"You admit to it; why then, would you dare to face me? Victory is an impossibility, and yet you seek it," called Mundus' voice from within the stone structure. "Indulge me: what do you intend to do once you hold my power within your grasp? A tyrant defeats a tyrant. What difference does it make if you are king or I am."

"Ah." A single gloved finger rose as though to prove a point. "But I have no desire to become king. Honestly, that was my objective initially. The Underworld, your kingdom, is in ruin. A stretch of darkness as putrid as that sludge pile you call 'Nightmare'. Repulsive, witless and I speak the term lazy rather lightly. I wished to re-create this world, return it to its former glory. But not anymore."

"What, pray tell, is your aim now then?"

"The human world," he said easily. "I wish to preserve the human world, seal the gates that bind this universe to it, and avoid any further decay that has seeped through the border. Until recently, I was not even aware of my demon brethren, the ones who crossed to the other side with the only intent to terrorize the living. As callous as I may be, I do not tolerate cowardice."

The chamber erupted again along with the dark one's malicious thundering laughter. Loose stones fell from the ceiling, coating Sparda's silver hair and stained coat in a thin layer of dust. He brushed his shoulders indifferently.

"What does any of that have to do with me?" Mundus asked shortly after.

"Hell is the home you have given us; liberty and freedom to do as we please to one another. Those rules are restricted to this world alone, no other. To infringe upon the rights of others, to steal their treasures and their lives for enjoyment, when it is no secret they are of a weaker race, is unacceptable, yet you let it happen. And it happens because demons are no longer satisfied with their own world. With ultimate power, I can seal the gates and spare the humans."

"Then work with me."

"That I cannot do. Goals must be achieved by the one who sets them. Besides, your ways are spoiled."

A demon, a demon like Sparda, sympathized with the humans? The very thought was laughable, if not uncharacteristic. It could, and most likely was, his visions of demons spoiled, and thus, this foolish attempt to aid the weak was to eliminate those he despised. Perhaps, it was merely fun to him, a game to stave off boredom, and seek pleasure in tormenting his fellow demonic kind.

No matter. A rebellious child, nobility or not, one of strength or one of weakness, was a rebellious child. And those who did wrong deserved to be punished. Sparda's little revolution would end here today, his payment: his very existence.

.

_to be continued…_

_._

**Notes: **I always forget to write a disclaimer. So, for future, let me say, I never have, nor will I ever own the rights to the _Devil May Cry_ franchise. Sparda, Eva, Dante, and whomever else was originally from the game are property of their rightful creators. I am merely using them for the purpose of this non-profitable story. There. Tis done.

I'll admit, I suck at action sequences. Therefore, unless I get reviews saying they really want to see a fight scene between Mundus and Sparda, I'll likely just skip over it. Oh, and hopefully Eva will be making her debut soon. Thank you to all who reviewed. Comments mean so much to me.


	3. Part III

**Nymphetamine  
**(part III)

.

"Bared on your tomb  
I'm a prayer for your loneliness.  
And would you ever soon  
come above unto me?…"

- "Nymphetamine" - _Cradle of Filth_

.

When the last of Mundus' vengeful cries faded away with the wind, his glowing form imploding and fizzling in a shower of crimson sparks, Sparda expelled a long, deep breath, fingers loosening. His sword slid from weak hands, clattering against the floor, vibrating slightly. Blood specked the stone beneath, and more still sullied his neat, white cravat and silken gloves. His silver hair, once combed back in a formal manner, now bobbed in all directions, a bird's next littered with pebbles and bits of flesh. Cracks spider-webbed their way across his monocle…again, and his pale skin was dotted with black and purple spots and lesions, crusted with dust and what could very well be the small crushed bodies of spiders, that had already begun to scab over.

Heavily, he took a seat on a large piece of stone that once belonged in the ceiling, and pulled at a torn strip of cloth, mourning the loss of another perfectly good suit. Though he'd been imagining this day -- his victory over the Prince of Darkness -- for quite some time, now that it was, now that his rebellion was essentially over, it felt unreal, and he waited for the moment when he would wake to find himself asleep in his camp, or perhaps one of the deceased.

But no abrupt awakening occurred, no wave of unimaginable pain -- no more than he was used to -- making it certain that he was still alive, still conscious and he had, actually, defeated Mundus. There was no demon in all of the Underworld more powerful than he.

The next days were met with chaos, as he assumed they would. It was unavoidable; when a strong leader was assassinated, a country stripped of its ruler, anarchy and destruction immediately followed as those remaining vied for power. However, due to his earlier actions, many of the higher ranking demons were trapped in their prisons, unable to claim Mundus' position for themselves. That left the insolent masses. Brainless creatures bathing the dry land with blood to keep them occupied until someone with intelligence acquired the right to rule. People, be they human, demon or otherwise, were nothing more than sheep, needing a master to follow, lest they wander on their own and become fodder for wolves.

Sparda took no part in their civil wars. With Mundus gone, there was no one to oppose him, no one with the power to hinder his next goal. The gates to the human world were beyond even Sparda's expectations, stealing the breath from his lungs in their dismal majesty. He was an enemy among his people, and knew better than to remain in this world. Therefore, for the first time in his existence, he stepped across the threshold, leaving behind his native land of Hell, walking among the humans.

Earth, he realized almost immediately, was very much a different world than Hell. He found himself in a castle, reminiscent of the Underworld, surrounded by a stretch of ocean, merging with the iron gray sky. The air was cold, holding the stench of salt and fish, and the dirt lush with vegetation. There were people here too: loyal guards dressed in silver armour, and nobles in robes of fine silks. They were fervent in their rituals to a multitude of gods, and welcomed him warmly.

The king and queen, and their subjects, urged him to tell of his tales in the other world, fascinated by his descriptions, and fearful of the beasts he spoke of.

"Might there be a way to keep them out?" asked the king upon the finale of his story. "Surely, in such chaos, the demons you speak of will find their way to our world, be it out of vengeance or sheer blood-lust."

Sparda nodded solemnly. "Without a doubt. That is why, I wish to request your help. You people believe that the gods watch over you, correct? That they guard you from evil, if you are worthy, and grant you strength, power, in the form of treasures. My hope is that we can seal off this entrance to the Underworld, so that none may exit, and none, unless truly worthy, may enter. This can be accomplished by instigating a series of tests and scattering the treasures throughout this island fortress, above ground, below, and throughout the chambers of this fortress, guarded by traps."

"A dangerous method."

"Yes, but justified. We would not want some arrogant criminal to unleash the wrath of the Underworld, now would we?"

In the days and months that followed, the castellanies obeyed Sparda's every word, creating a maze, a series of puzzles, and hiding each of the ritualistic keys that would unlock a gate to the Underworld. The Staff of Hermes was hidden within a marooned ship, sacred lances in the Coliseum, and various treasures throughout the grounds. At last, the noblemen came to Sparda, informing him of their success.

"Saviour." It was the name they had chosen to give him. "We have done what you requested. The gates are closed and the treasures hidden."

Sparda smiled, though his expression was one without warmth, and they found no comfort in it. "Well done. I regret to inform you, though, that it is not yet enough, and so, I have another favour to ask."

Eyes grew wide and hands clasped together as they knelt at Sparda's feet like faithful worshippers. Humans were peculiar beings indeed. "Whatever it is, we shall obey."

"The gates have been closed," he said over a goblet of fine wine, swirling the contents gently, "though they have not yet been sealed. It is like a door. You can very well shut it, but it does you no service if those you wish to keep out and simply turn the handle and step inside. It must be locked; and thus, we need to seal the gates with a spell, one that cannot so easily be broken."

"How must we do that?" they asked, voices strained by fear and excitement.

Sparda's icy eyes stared at the wine in his cup. "A ritual. The key to unlocking the gates of the Underworld will be a sacred bond of human and demon. One cannot exist without the other, or it will be too easy to break the spell. Therefore, I ask that you offer to me a sacrifice: a virgin woman, whose life and blood, along with my own, will close off the doors forever. It is a high price to pay, but all that must be done."

The castellanies were terrified, but nonetheless agreed. Sparda, the hero of the Underworld, the Saviour of Earth, knew best and they, his first disciples, would agree to whatsoever he requested.

The ritual was scheduled for the following night, a night of a full moon, partially hidden and smeared by wisps of storm clouds. Their sacrifice was a young woman, barely eighteen, he guessed. A priestess, who'd lived her life in solitude, whose pale skin had rarely seen the light of the sun, whose eyes had scarcely gazed upon the faces of men.

She was sober as she was led to the center of the chamber, guided by the Order's elder, passed the almost mourning monks and priests and ordinary noblemen. The women dabbed at their eyes with silken handkerchiefs, and the priestess began to tremble with fear. She looked upwards to the altar, feeling almost like a bride, not one who would begin her life with the man she loved, but one ending her life with a man she knew nothing of.

Sensing her fright, Sparda did his best to offer her what comfort he could -- which was not much. It was a pity the sacrifice had to be her, he thought, taking her hand as she reached the altar to find her fingers shaking uncontrollably. The fires in the hearths lining the steps played across her face, illuminating her youthful features, round lips and deep eyes, and skin soft to the touch. A stream of chestnut fell down her back and shoulders, hair that likely hadn't been cut since she was a small child, and her body -- fine framed, slender with small, firm, round breasts barely visible through the thin tunic -- was draped in ivory cloth, her feet bare.

Pitying her, Sparda made her death swift, cradling her dying body and handing it off with care to waiting monks once the blood drained from her body. It amazed him how fragile humans were, the loss of so little blood so crippling. It was a shame that her sacrifice meant her life, while his resulted in no more than a few days recuperation. Their blood together, the life water of human and demon, stretched along the stone, coating the portal to the Underworld until at last, not a gap remained.

Strong arms led Sparda away, for he could barely hold himself up, he was so weak. The key was removed, instructed to be dismembered and scattered, the gate forever closed. His wound was tended to, a bed and supper made, waiting in the room when he returned.

"He's gone!" A young girl, twelve or so, pulled her skirt up around her knees, dashing down the stone steps as fast as her feet would allow, hollering for the all to hear. "He's gone!"

A senior servant held the girl by the shoulders, speaking firmly. "Calm yourself girl. Who's gone? What's happened?"

She stopped, taking long, deep breaths until her words came easier. "I was sent to gather the dishes from His Lordship's supper. When I knocked, I received no reply, and fearing that today's activities harmed him more than thought, I entered. But the room was empty and the balcony doors open. Lord Sparda is gone!"

.

_to be continued…_

_._

**Notes: **So I skipped the Mundus vs Sparda battle. I'd assume it was something similar to Dante's fight against him in the actual game. In this "universe" the anime and Devil May Cry 2 never happened. So, any information presented in those two installments about Sparda (so any demons he faced or apprentices he had don't exist in this story).

I promise Eva will debut in the next chapter. Hang in there!


	4. Part IV

**Nymphetamine  
**(part IV)

.

"For once upon a time  
from the binds of you loneliness,  
I could always find  
the right slot for your sacred key…"

- "Nymphetamine" - _Cradle of Filth_

.

The morning began like all others. The sun rose early, chasing away the darkness with warm rays of yellow, streaming through the curtains of her bedroom that fluttered in the breeze. She woke with fatigue in her joints, stretching until they popped and sat up, her golden tresses in disarray. Her first destination was the washroom, where she turned on the faucet, listening to the pipes groan and sputter before the water shot forth. She bathed until her skin was pink and combed out her hair and dressed in her finest garments.

She ate a breakfast of bread and cheese, simple, for she had much to do and could afford no time preparing anything else, and gathered her things in a wicker basket. Inside the basket were various offerings she was to bring to the church with her, offerings for the Legendary Dark Knight Sparda, so that he might hear her prayers and bless her. At last, before leaving, she walked back down the hallways, though not far to her bedroom. Instead, she stopped partway down and opened the door gently, cringing when the old wood squealed.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn, gray in colour, and smelt of fevered sweat. Leaving her basket by the door, she crossed to the night table. The water in the dish was room temperature, so she replaced it, dipping a dry cloth into the icy liquid and wringing the excess. When it was damp, not dripping, she folded it in half, then twice more into a neat rectangle, and placed it upon the frail, wrinkled forehead of her aging father. He didn't stir from sleep, and just to be sure, Eva checked his pulse. It was weak, as always, but still there. He'd be asleep for a little while longer, enough time for her to do what she'd planned and return, and when he was awake, she would feed and wash him, and hopefully he would have enough energy to exercise. He hadn't been on a walk in days.

The heels of her shoes clicked loudly against the pavement as she made her way through the fairly crowded streets towards the church. She'd hoped it would be vacant at this time, but it seemed as though she was not the only dutiful worshipper, and waited near the back of the cathedral until the earlier visitors made their way from the altar.

The chapel was dark, its stained-glass windows tinted to allow only enough light to illuminate the frescos. Candles lined the walls, one at the end of each pew, flickering in an invisible breeze and leading the way to the altar. The flames drew long shadows on the cobblestone floor, giving the place a more eerie than sacred tone. Nevertheless, many found sanctuary in the walls, as if guarded by the immense stone statue of the Dark Knight himself.

From where she stood, Eva stared up at it. Priests claimed the statue was to scale, meaning that Sparda had been very godlike indeed, towering a good twenty feet tall, including the spiral horns. His perfect features held the expression of someone noble and great and his hands were clasping a beautifully crafted sword. Strange that humans would trade angels for demons, though it was said that Sparda was not of the wicked, instead the Saviour of the earth, joining forces with the humans to combat the forces of the Underworld. None knew what became of him after the war -- some said he was killed in battle, others that he'd died time later, and others still claimed he was alive and walking among them -- but his actions were so great that people came to revere him as something holy. And they claimed it worked too; prayers were answered, miracles performed, by Sparda, they said.

Eva's parents were firm believers in the powers of the Dark Knight, and she had been raised with the belief that he was watching out for them, ready to protect the humans from darkness. This was not her first time visiting the church, but it was the first time she'd ever made any real effort in her prayers, other than simply uttering in her head. When the chapel was all but empty, she made her way to the altar with her basket in tow, setting it down on the floor and began sifting through its contents. She left aged wine and bread, cheese and sweets, even her gold earring, as offerings to him. Then, she pressed her hands together, bowed her head and closed her eyes.

She prayed for the soul of her mother, hoping that wherever she was, she was in peace. And she prayed for the soul of her father, still alive, but not the least bit well. He hadn't been well since his beloved wife passed away. It was beautiful, really, that her father loved her mother so dearly, to live without her was all but impossible. But he was her only family, and she loved him dearly. Could Sparda not keep him safe and alive?

From a passage on the right, a door that blended with the dark stone, a priest emerged. He was dressed in fine robes, golden clasps and silver trimming, accessorized with scarlet gems. Greying hair neatly combed, he smiled warmly, the candle in his long fingers playing on his soft face.

"You've come to make an offering to our saviour?" he asked, chin tilting in the direction of the food and wine.

Shyly, Eva bobbed her head up and down. He drew closer, a strange smell wafting from the folds of his clothes; something like a mixture of perfumes and sulphur.

"What is it you've prayed for? Perhaps I may be of assistance."

Eva regarded him with a suspicious eye. "I prayed for my father to be well. He's sick, you see, so I had hoped that the Legendary Dark Knight's powers may be enough to save him."

The priest's brows rose curiously. "Is that so? Well then, I _can_ be of assistance. Why don't you take me to your father, and allow me to heal him."

"I…" She hesitated. "I beg your pardon, but I have taken him to many doctors; it hasn't helped. I'm afraid your remedies, be what they may, won't be of help either."

"But you asked Sparda to help you, didn't you?"

"Yes."

The priest smiled again, resting his firm hand on her shoulder. "And he has answered your prayer."

Eva inched back slowly, her face pinched in an expression of distrust. She slipped her hand into her skirt, feeling for the revolver she kept in a holster on her thigh. "Do you expect me to believe that _you _are the Legendary Dark Knight Sparda?"

He pressed a hand to his chest, as though her words had wounded him greatly. "You mean you don't believe me? But I'm telling you the truth."

"Prove it," she spat and curled her fingers around the handle, sliding it out slowly.

The priest snapped his fingers and all at once, every candle in the chapel extinguished, dousing them in darkness. Another snap, and they lit again. A sweep of his hand and the front pews burst in an explosion of blue lightening, sizzling around his hand but never touching more than the tips of his nails.

"Shall I continue to demonstrate? Or have I earned your trust?"

Eva's grip on her gun loosened as she stared at the sparks. It was true, no human could do such a thing. So, he honestly was Sparda. Suddenly, she was overcome with guilt and humility, and bowed her head low, gold falling over her shoulders.

"Forgive me, I did not know," she said, feeling the blood rush into her cheeks.

"It's quite all right. I should not have been surprised that you would be wary. That's very wise of you. However, as you can see, the rumours of my death, or speaking that I was never alive is all nonsense." He dropped his shoulders and laughed beneath his breath. "Don't be so hard on yourself, miss. It was merely a case of mistaken identity."

Eva sniffed, trying to hold her tears back and wiped the palm of her hand across her eyes. "But it was disrespectful. And I…I feel so unworthy of being in your presence." She looked up finally, eyes wet and beautiful, hands balled into fists. If she'd offended him, he might disregard her prayers now. She thought about her father, sick and dying. "Please, allow me to repent! I will do anything."

The corners of his mouth turned up with interest and he moved closer, pinned her between the altar and himself. He gripped her chin tightly, though not enough to hurt her, between his thumb and forefinger. "You should be wary of what you say. Even legendary saviours grow lonely sometimes, and meeting someone as lovely as you, to hear she will do anything simply to avoid being reprimanded... well, that stirs the imagination and ignites desire..."

Eva began to shake uncontrollably as his face came closer. "Please stop. That's not what I meant."

"But you said you'd do anything." His free hand found the hem of her skirt and lifted it slightly. Cold fingers traced her leg, the hard bone of her knee, and continued up her round thigh, nail grazing the skin lightly. With firm pressure, he moved between her weakening legs, forcing her up against the stone.

"I take it back," she said, louder this time, the tears falling once more, in fear this time.

"But you want to heal your father, don't you? A small price to pay -- giving yourself to the world's most favoured being -- for your father's health. Or are you that selfish?" His lips were a breath away from hers, when he froze, and it was only a second before she heard the sound of a cylinder rotating.

"Perhaps it is you who is simply deceitful, assuming the guise of an idol to take advantage of an innocent woman. I believe she asked you to stop." The stranger who'd come up behind him, soundlessly, pressed the barrel of his gun against the priest's head. "If I were in your shoes, I would listen. There are six slots in this gun and one bullet. Your odds of losing your head are one in six: sixteen percent. Not bad, but not good either. It's your call."

The priest rose his hands so the stranger could see them. "I'm not much of a gambler. Fine: you win. I shan't touch the girl."

"Good." The stranger, a tall man with silver hair -- because of age, Eva was not sure; he looked young enough -- stepped back and replaced the white gun back in its holster. "Leave then and never again call yourself Sparda; I assume he was a far greater man than you anyway."

The priest hurried towards the door and Eva was just beginning to wonder if he was not Sparda, as he'd claimed, how was he able to do all those fancy tricks, when the stranger spun around, pulling out the gun as he did so, and squeezed the trigger. His aim was true, and the priest fell over, leaving a smear of blood and brains on the door as he went. Eva screamed aloud and closed her eyes.

"Hm, it appears luck was not on his side. Pity," said the silver-haired man, not sounding at all remorseful. He walked passed Eva towards the altar and picked up her gold earrings. They looked old, antiques handed down through the women in her family, probably. He dangled them in front of her face. "Take them."

She opened her eyes slowly, not sure whether to feel grateful he'd saved her, or frightened, lest he decide to kill her too. In the end, she dispelled both feelings and shook her head. "Those are gifts to the -- "

He cut her off abruptly, pushing the earrings into her palm. "A statue doesn't need your jewellery, nor your food if you would care to take that as well. And mind where your faith lies. Idols and demons…they are not what you should pray to."

Eva tilted her head slightly, examining the man. He was a good foot taller than her, with broad shoulders and a slim figure hidden beneath layer upon layer of cotton and velvet with a heavy silver chain and blood red jewel at the end; the attire of a duke or noble. His features were harsh, eyes narrow, one peering out a gold-rimmed monocle, jaw straight and nose sharp, even a slight perk to the tops of his ears if she looked hard enough. His white gloves were dusted with gunpowder, and she saw a second gun, a black one, hanging in another holster. Both were fashioned in the same manner, their handles covered in thick leather for added grip, and yellowed photos of ancient women imbedded in the leather. Words were inscribed on the barrels, but she couldn't make out what they said.

"You don't believe in Sparda?" she asked conversationally.

He walked around the altar, looking up at the statue in all its glory, and scrunched his nose in apparent disgust. "Oh, I believe in him. I just don't agree that he was a great enough man to be immortalized and worshiped as a god. If all who did something remotely note worthy were made into deities, well, there would be far too many to keep track of."

"But Sparda saved this world. If not for him, who knows what you have happened to us. Demons would likely have entered this world as destroyed everything."

"And you believe it was because of him that they haven't?"

She nodded seriously and the man gestured in the direction of the doors. Eva followed his motion and stared at the body of the priest. Or what had been the body of the priest. In his place lay the twisted, gray-skinned, decaying heap of flesh and fabric of a monster, thick tongue lolling, red eyes staring at the ceiling. She looked back at the man, her eyes wide with fear. The magic he'd displayed for her was not the power of Sparda, but the power of an ordinary demon.

"You knew?" she asked.

"One can usually tell. Demons acquire skin of humans, but their behaviour remains the same. They stink of the Underworld, often display their abilities if provoked, and flee screaming as soon as a devil hunter is within proximity."

She stared at his guns again, assuming that he was said devil hunter. He packed her offerings back into her basket and hung it around her elbow. He descended the altar, making for the door, and stopped momentarily to poke the demon priest with his foot, just to make sure he was really dead. He'd let the church employees dispose of the body, but it would be unfortunate of their friend decided to wake and devour them all. He didn't seem to be alive, but just to be certain, the true Dark Knight Sparda emptied Ombra into the monster's head.

He walked into the vestibul and the doors had very nearly swung back closed before Eva dashed after him. "Wait!"

Stopping, he glanced over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"You saved my life," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't even want to be begin what may have happened had you not shown up. I'm grateful."

"Don't be. Devils should not remain in this world. They only cause trouble. I would have done the same for anyone."

That was probably true, but Eva wouldn't deny that his words were cold. Nevertheless, she was in debt to him and told him as much. He seemed unaffected by her words and she wondered how many people he'd rescued in his profession. How many prettier, pushier women he'd saved. Suddenly, she felt embarassed, and stared at the tips of her shoes. "Will I ever see you again?"

Sparda looked down at her. Normally, he would have said, "No, of course not." But there was something about her he couldn't quite place. True, she was beautiful enough -- long blonde hair that grazed her backside, blue eyes that were large yet not so much as to look awkward on her face, full lips with a natural red hue and a small but full figure she dressed down with cheap fabric that was all she could afford -- but he'd seen many such women in the two thousand years he'd walked this world, and plenty more in the Underworld before. He'd become indifferent to shallow attractions as beauty. Though she appeared weak, he could see a spark in her eyes, fire that she had yet to unleash. Perhaps that was it, but he couldn't be certain. Something was enticing about her, and he repeated her question once more in his head.

Finally, he looked towards the altar, thinking about the offering she'd made. A religious woman she was. "Do you wish to?"

Eva smiled, hoping, and knowing, there was more to him than he was willing to reveal. "I pray to the Legendary Knight that I shall."

At that, he finally offered something of a smile. "Then you will."

.

_to be continued…_


	5. Part V

**Nymphetamine  
**(part v)

.

____

"

Six feet deep is the incision.  
In my heart, that barless prison.  
Discoulours all with tunnel vision."

- Cradle of Filth - _Nymphetamine_

.

Perhaps, she thought, as she wandered the crowded streets of town one afternoon, she'd angered Sparda in some way. Perhaps, when she was a child, or perhaps in a previous life, she'd done something wicked, like stole or harmed someone or sold her feminine body as an item of luxury to the highest bidder, and fell out of his favour. It seemed like the only true explanation for his lack of aid. Her father was still ill, growing worse; she wasn't sure how long he would last. And she hadn't, since that morning in the chapel, run into the silver-haired demon hunter, whose name, she realized once returning home, she'd never asked.

He'd left an impression on her, lit a spark in her belly that set off a firework display of hyperactive butterflies, and she'd skipped along the cobblestone like an iridescent schoolgirl all the way home. He'd come to be, in her mind, a charming white knight, such as the ones in fairytales, who never failed to save the fair maiden from the villainous dragon. Only her knight, if she could truly call him that, did not sweep her off her feet, or grace her with true love's first kiss, or ride with her into the sunset -- truth be told, she'd likely have smacked him for the mere thought.

Yet, ever still, her heart fluttered and she hurried through the house with a giggle in her throat, and told her father all about the demon priest and hunter who'd saved her life, and her innocence. The old man, his bearded face white and wrinkled, lay an equally wrinkled hand upon hers and gave it a kind squeeze.

"Lord Sparda is watching over you," he wheezed. "You must cherish this blessing that has befallen you."

And she had. Regardless of what the brave stranger had said, Eva gave offerings to the church everyday after that, saving what little she could by tailoring clothes for the townspeople in one of the growing shops in the market district, and split her earnings into charity and well-being, spending it on food and other necessities. She prayed every day, prayed to meet the handsome demon hunter again, and squealed in delight every time a head of silver cropped up among the brown and black and blonde of town regulars, before realizing it was merely a tall elderly in cotton gowns and glasses, not violet velvet or a golden monocle.

Her thoughts were broken by the carefree laughter of a band of street urchins appearing out of the throng. Little boys, no older than seven, raced down the sidewalk, waving sticks high above the air, their small wool suits and foreign-style hats old and torn and smeared with dirt.

"Halt fiends!" yelled one of the children. "Spawns of Satan shall never escape me!"

Eva laughed to herself. There was no difference these children and those of wealthier birth besides their garments and the homes to which they returned at the end of the day. In this world, there was no such thing as Cops and Robbers, or Cowboys and Indians. The game was Sparda and the Demons.

"Oh!" As the children scurried by, waving their sticks like swords, they wove around her legs, one stick tearing the cloth of her skirt. They stopped immediately, and mumbled amongst themselves, trying to throw blame on someone else.

Eva planted her hands on her hips in a scolding mother fashion and shook her head. Then she poked a finger through the tear in her skirt. It was fixable, but it would forever be noticed as a flaw in the cloth. She wasn't the least bit angry, accidents happened, but the children didn't need to know that.

She knelt in the dirt, in front of the little boy's whose stick was the culprit, a thread of identical fabric hanging between splinters. She'd seen the boy often before and knew him by name. Emile was six, with a curly mop of red hair and a field of freckles on his nose and cheeks. The dirt on his face always seemed to make his wide, green eyes pop all the more and today they were wet with tears.

Smiling, she rubbed away a smear with her thumb. "Lord Sparda looks down upon naughty behaviour. You must always remain a gentlemen, right? Tearing a lady's skirt is very un-gentleman-like."

"I'm sorry, Miss Eva," he said quietly.

With a pat of his cheek, she stood and her knees popped lightly like an old woman's. "It's all right. But remember to be more careful from now on, okay? Others might not be as forgiving as me, and I would hate the thought of you boys getting in trouble for the mere act of play."

Their heads bobbed up and down in sync, thankful they would not get in trouble, and ran off, laughing and swinging their sword-sticks as though nothing had happened. Eva shook her head, trying to remember what it was like having been a child with no worries.

Her first stop, as always, was the church. She'd learned how to blend with the crowd, and often prayed quickly, leaving the service before she could be noticed. On her way out, she always hesitated by the chapel doors, noticing the stain that, in the dimness was barely recognizable, but which she knew well to be the horrific stain of demonic blood. She hated to think what might have become of her had her demon-hunting saviour not arrived when he had.

As she left the church, relishing in the coolness of the outside air in contrast to the thick heat of so many bodies in the chapel, she noticed the migration of villagers had shifted severely. All were flooding west, their hoods or shawls pulled up, heads down, walking slow enough not to raise alarm, but quick enough so as to break into a sprint of the situation so called for it.

She craned her neck, hoping to locate the source of their distress, and watched smoke and dust rise up above the building rooftops. Knowing her house was located nearby, and fearing for the safety of her frail father, Eva lifted the hem of her skirt and descended the steps, two and three at a time, running against the crowd like a weak fish against the raging current.

"Excuse me. Pardon me. Please, allow me through," she repeated over and over. Finally, someone, an older man with a growing beard and beady eyes, grabbed her by the shoulder.

"You mustn't go that way, Miss," he said, trying and failing to hide the worry in his voice. "Demons have appeared and are killing anyone they lay their eyes upon. We must all run!"

Again, Eva thought of her father and pulled away from the man, running as fast as she was able down the street, praying to Sparda she made it in time. She had to, her father was her only family left. She was his daughter; it was her duty to take care of the man that had raised and cared for her her whole life. She could not leave him to be eaten by demons while she ran away with her tail between her legs, even if she couldn't stop the monsters.

The eastern end of town was in chaos. Fires started in shops, smoke pouring out of windows, while others collapsed in on themselves, sending dust into the sky. People ran amuck, waving their arms over their heads, some on fire, most bleeding, none knowing where to go for safety.

Eva looked up, the normally bright morning sky was black as night with the cloaks of hundreds of wispy ghost-like demons, swinging scythes, blades orange with heat. They moaned and cackled, their haunting voices resounding through the alleyways and winding streets. With a fluid dip, blood spurt like a water fountain and bodies split in two, heads flying like baseballs. Eva ducked under a tilted slab of stone, her hair and face and clothes sprinkled with red droplets.

She clasped her hand over her breast, feeling her heart racing within. From her hiding spot, she could see her father's house, unscathed by neither flames nor demon. She knew it wouldn't remain that way for long. Just as she was steeling herself to dart through the chaos, into her father's house and lead the old man to safety, she heard a wailing cry and turned her head to see little Emile from earlier, seated on the ground, bleeding from his knees, beneath the massive shadow of a hooded demon with colourless flesh and white, glowing holes where eyes should have been.

"Hey!" Eva screamed and chucked a handful of sizeable bricks at the demon. "Leave that child alone, you coward!"

Slowly, the demon turned its head, a moan erupting from the back of its throat. Then it rotated and began limping in her direction, the silver scythe catching the dim light. Eva threw more bricks, hoping to hurt it, or at least scare it away. Instead, she seemed to be doing the opposite and its pace increased. Disposing of the bricks, Eva picked up the stick Emile was using before, the same stick that tore her skirt, and held it in an offensive stance.

When the demon drew close enough, she swung, smacking the stick against its leg and it stumbled. Moaning again, as if to say, "Nice move. Now, my turn!" it swung its scythe, cutting Eva's pathetic stick in two. She walked backwards, turned and twisted her ankle, limping across the street. A frightened villager smacked into her, the force sending her skidding through the dirt.

The demon gained on her, cutting down all who stumbled in the way. Another swung, a squirt of red, Eva crab-walked backwards. Once, the blade came dangerously close to her chest, slicing through her bodice like a hot knife through a stick of butter and she screamed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw what she believed to be a flash of red light and a streak of purple. Demons screamed and the one above Eva focused his attention on whatever was going on. Eva looked as well, but couldn't see because of the jutting piece of wall in her way.

There was an explosion of sound and the demon fell over like a bag of rice, dissolving into sand and disappearing between the stones. Eva sat up, hoping to see what all the commotion was when a purple arm grabbed her roughly by the shoulder. She looked up to the head of silver and handsome features, and icy blue eyes, one behind a monocle.

"It's you!" she exclaimed, bursting with delight despite the danger she had been, and still was, in.

"What a pleasure to see you as well," he said quickly, and she wasn't sure if he meant it, "but now is not the time to chat. We have to run now!"

Behind them, Eva watched a grey demon clothed in scraps of black dragging itself along, carrying a giant orange…pulsating thing on its back. "What is that?"

"A Hell Wrath," said the man. "Demons that torture souls which committed the sin of Wrath during life. That orange thing is a demonic heart and if we do not leave now, it will explode and kill us."

Eva's eyes grew wide and she paused, fighting against him. "My father!"

"What?"

"My father lives in a house around here. I can't leave him." She tore away and ran towards the Hell Wrath at full speed. Perhaps she could get past it before it exploded.

Sparda watched her go, not knowing why he suddenly felt very afraid. He shouldn't have cared; she was one foolish human. His job was to make sure vast populations of them were not slaughtered by his demonic brethren. But…

"Wait!" He took off after her, watching the heart contract and expand like a bubbling stew, growing brighter and brighter. With one final sprint, he threw all his weight on top of her, forcing her into the hard pavement at the same moment the heart burst, sending demon guts and a wave of energy in all directions.

.

_to be continued…_

.

**Author's Notes:** It took me forever to figure out a way for Eva and Sparda to meet up again. Sorry for the long wait . Anyway, reviews are always appreciated (especially now) so I thank everyone who has in the past and will in the future. See you next chapter!


	6. Part VI

**Nymphetamine  
**(part vi)

.

"Sick and weak from my condition.  
This lust, this vampyric addiction.  
To Her alone in full submission."

- Cradle of Filth - _Nymphetamine_

.

Slowly, mindful of the severe streams of evening sunlight filtering through the window, Sparda opened his eyes, his lids and skull aching. He hadn't felt this bad, he recalled, since defeating Mundus eons ago. Humanity had made him weak.

The room he opened his eyes to was brown in the dimness, everything containing the odour of must, like it had been sealed away for a long time. Dust reflected the sun's light, looking like diamonds in the heavenly streams. He turned his head, his blurred gaze stopping on oak wardrobes and rosewood desks, hardcover books with yellow pages. The curtains were chequered, brown and gold, and the rug depicted an abstract scene of an incident he could not decipher. Woodland creatures made of wicker stared at him from the corner.

"You're awake."

Eva entered the room, a bowl tucked under her arm, a cloth on her shoulder. There were bandages on her forehead and cheek and her wrist looked broken, slung in a makeshift brace. The ends of her hair were black, split into dry forks. "Don't try to move too quickly," she said as he attempted to sit up, every bone and joint in his body crying with agony.

He fell back against the pillows with a defeated groan.

"You took the brunt of that monster's attack. It's a miracle you survived. Any normal person would be dead."

He chuckled under his breath. Yes, a _normal _person. She sat down on a footstool beside the bed and put the bowl on the night table. He wondered how many times she'd sat there while he'd been unconscious.

"Is your father all right?" he asked.

She nodded with a smile. "Yes. Fortunately, he was just out of range of the attack. Houses further in were damaged though. Some people died."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, and it sounded like he meant it. "And you?"

"Alive thanks to you. I wanted to wash your clothes, but the fabric looks expensive. It's torn in places, but I didn't want to ruin them further. And your monocle; the wire's twisted but I went into town this afternoon and managed to find a shopkeeper who said he was able to make a new lens. It should be ready by tomorrow."

Sparda opened his mouth but only made a few cracking sounds like he was trying to say, "Apple" without ever getting past the "Ah". He realized he didn't know her name. "You don't have to do all this work."

"It's the only way I know how to live. I don't have a job. I haven't any talents or skills employers seek and since my father fell ill, the only money we have comes from the selling of family heirlooms. If I don't busy myself, I start to remember that he'll die soon and I'll not only be poor, I'll be alone," she explained and pulled the sheets aside. "And it's Eva, by the way."

"Eva," he repeated, listening to the syllables roll off his tongue.

The only garments she'd left on him were his pants and shirt. She also left the large red pendant he wore on a silver chain. It was simple, but gave her the feeling that it was important. Wetting the cloth, she sponged the sweat and dried blood from his neck and her fingers easily pulled open the buttons on his shirt. He made no attempt to stop her; many women had cared for him and pampered him with warm bathes, oils and food after battle or long nights of pleasure.

Eva's eyes widened and she trailed her fingers along his muscles. She was sure there'd been a fresco of lesions and burns here just yesterday. Yet this morning, the skin was unbroken. She fought to keep her hands steady as she ran the damp cloth over his chest. When she'd dabbed each arm and wiped the fevered sweat from his brow, she rinsed the cloth and stood up.

"Are you hungry? I made a stew."

"I could eat," he said.

"I'll get you some. In the meantime, you should rest." She walked towards the door and when he'd closed his eyes, she felt around the pile of clothes. She tucked Luce beneath her skirt in the waistband of her panties and slipped into the hall, closing the door softly behind her.

On her way by, she poked her head into her father's room. His breaths were wheezy and short. She'd wake him shortly and take him out. There hadn't been any monsters around for a couple days. In the kitchen, she found a bowl made of wood and scooped some stew. After meeting the silver-haired man in the Church the other day, she'd sold her mother's earrings to a jeweller for a high price. With the money she earned, she bought bread and meat and fresh vegetables.

Staring into the bowl, she wished she had poison. A bit of cyanide perhaps, or arsenic to slip into his meal. There was something strange about that man: his strength, his agility and the fact that he was able to sense demons. He wasn't human. But she couldn't even afford poison to kill the rodents that infested the house during the summer.

She brought him the stew and a wooden spoon to eat it with. He accepted it humbly and nibbled as though shy. When he was finished, Eva took the empty dish and washed it with the rest of the morning dishes. She was rinsing the last plate when Sparda's reflection appeared in the window. She half-turned to see him in the doorway with his coat on his shoulders and one glove on. His shoes were on, but untied, and a quick run of his fingers through his hair made the silver strands stand with invisible electricity.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Eva, but I'd best be on my way. There shouldn't be any more demons in this area so you and your father should have no more trouble."

"All right," she said. When he took a couple steps towards her, she backed into the sink. There was nowhere to run to. Sparda filled the doorway. "Farewell, stranger. I wish you luck in your travels. May Sparda watch over you."

His lips turned up into a smirk. He must think her childish, she thought, for he always got that look when she spoke of Sparda. It was like he was mocking her.

"Sparda's strength is all I can count on to keep me alive," he said and closed the small gap between them. One hand slipped around her small waist and he tilted his face, brushing her lips softly with his. Eva placed her hands on his chest to push him away, but the moment his mouth touched hers, it was as though the strength had been drained from her body. Her knuckles ached to even grasp the folds of his cloak.

He pushed her skirt up over her knees and tugged on her panties. Eva gasped and pulled her hand back, prepared to strike him across the face. He wrapped his forefinger around Luce's trigger and thrust the barrel right next to her face.

"It's not nice to steal a rich man's things." He winked his half-blind eye and dropped a velvet pouch into her hands. "This should last you a while. Farewell, Eva." And like a rush of air, he was gone. Eva hurried to the door, but was too late. The house, besides herself and her father, was empty.

.

_to be continued..._

_._

**Author's Notes: **Again, I sincerely apologize for the lack of updates. Please see my profile for further information regarding my absence.

I don't think there will be too many more chapters. No more than ten altogether because seriously, I'm not one to write epic fan fictions. I leave the struggles and major antagonists to my original work and prefer to explore the emotional sides of characters in stories such as these.


End file.
